Life is Not a Fairy Tale
by ProfessorElk
Summary: Set after Season 7: He did not know what to expect, but he surely was not expecting this. He should have known, though, because life is not a fairy tale.


**Life is Not a Fairy Tale**

By ProfessorElk

_Disclaimer_: The NCIS characters mentioned below are not mine and no profit has been made in the writing or posting of this story.

_Summary_: He did not know what to expect, but he surely was not expecting this. He should have known, though, because life is not a fairy tale.

_Spoilers_: Set after Season 7.

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He did not know for what exactly he had been hoping when they burst into the room, more aptly described as an oversized closet, converted into prison cell. For a moment, he had allowed himself to entertain the thought that they would arrive at the decrepit and long abandoned house, he and his partner would climb the stairs, him in the rear and she taking point. They would pause in front of the door, guns drawn but clasped close to their chests, and she would turn back towards him, gaze questioning. They would have a conversation without uttering a word, glances and expressions negating the necessity. He would nod in silent understanding, and would draw his leg back, connecting violently with the door, causing the rickety thing to splinter on impact.

They would enter the room, guns and gazes sweeping the tiny confinement before coming to rest upon their friend. He would have his back against the wall, looking like he had just scrambled to his feet, flustered but grinning sheepishly when he realized he was being rescued.

His own face would break into a grin after sweeping his friend, noticing nothing amiss with the man other than rumpled clothing dulled by dust, nose slightly reddened by the allergens in the air. The tightness in his chest would loosen and relief would pool through his veins. He would tease the former captive of being a damsel in distress, a Rapunzel trapped in a tower prison. He would carry the joke, saying that they had looked for a rope of hair to climb, but the man's barber made sure that would not happen. The man would flush in embarrassment, hand unconsciously combing through his new crew cut, still embarrassed that his elderly, hard of hearing barber had thought that he had said "the crew" instead of "the same will do."

He would walk over to his friend and would sling his arm around the man's shoulder good-naturedly, the three reunited agents walking down the stairs to their boss, their fearless leader looking a little less apprehensive when he caught sight of them walking across the gravel drive. They would stand around the navy blue agency sedan as Metro hauled away the bad guys, smiles permanently etched on their faces at a job well done, a successful mission, an all's-well-that-ends-well to a story that could have ended much more grim.

But life is not a fairy tale.

His day-dream began to be played out in near perfect accuracy, Ziva taking the stairs, him following closely behind, walking up the steps backwards, gun drawn, looking out for any domestic terrorists who had gotten past Gibbs. The rooms upstairs were empty, the enraged shouts from the confrontation and the hissing pops from the firefight moments ago downstairs now no more than a distant echo reverberating off of desolate walls. They cleared each room, one by one, silently growing more frantic when their quest only yielded a couple of rats scurrying past their feet and spiders fleeing into the crannies of the walls as the agents walked through their webs.

The pair only had one room left to clear, one last chance to find their missing friend. The remaining door was locked, and a swift kick only resulted in a bone-jarring shock snaking its way from his ankle to the base of his spine. Ziva rolled her eyes, quickly reaching into the pocket of her NCIS tactical jacket and procuring her lock picking set. He turned around so that his back was facing her's, eyes sweeping down the hall, ears intently listening to the picks scratching the locking mechanism. He had already been unable to protect one team member's six, he was not about to leave another one's unguarded.

Ziva made quick work of the lock, rusty hinges squeaking open, announcing her success. She pocketed her tools while simultaneously entering through the now open door, gun raised. He spun around on his heel, stance mimicking Ziva's as he entered the room, more aptly described as an oversized closet turned prison.

He did not know what to expect, but he surely was not expecting this. He should have known, though, because life is not a fairy tale.

He had to stop to avoid crashing into Ziva, who had paused within the doorframe. He peered over her shoulder to see what she saw, the tightness in his chest constricting painfully. The man, his colleague, his friend, was slumped against the adjacent wall, feet splayed before him, dressed in the same light blue dress shirt he had been wearing three days ago when he was taken, completely still and unmoving, eyes wide open and glazed staring blankly at them. The back of his own eyes stung. Another partner's eyes to close in death. Once was one time too many.

Beside him, Ziva inhaled sharply, her agony apparent without murmuring a word. She went to Tim, crouching down beside his unmoving frame, outstretched hand pausing and hovering in front of the man's face. He silently begged her not to do it, to not touch Tim's neck and confirm their fears, while simultaneously silently begging her to do it on the off-chance that they would have a miracle, that the nightmare would turn into a fairy tale.

He ignored the tremor of her hand from his vantage point at the door, paralyzed by his own fear to get closer. She cupped the man's cheek first, though that did not elicit a reaction. Steeling herself, her hand became steady as it drifted down to her partner's neck, two fingers resting under Tim's jaw. The world turned silent as sound tunneled to a standstill, waiting with bated breath for the verdict.

Ziva drew back her hand, and he had to clench his eyes closed to keep the tears at bay. They were too late. Teasing about Rapunzels and knights in shining armor would fall on deaf ears; ears closed to sound forever in death. Unable to stand any more emotional turmoil, he spun on his heel and left the oversized closet turned prison cell, stopping in the hallway, doubling over in grief. His eyes burned, tears leaking from their corners despite his efforts to keep them inside.

He took a shuddering breath, ignoring Gibbs in his ear asking for an update. Unable to respond, he ripped the earpiece from his ear, Gibbs' voice becoming faint as the white coiled wire fell down his back. He heard a voice calling, ignoring it thinking it was Gibbs, until he realized the voice was coming from the other room. Ziva was calling Tim. Dead men did not need to be called.

He hurried back to the room, ready to be present for his friend, but Ziva's outstretched hand stopped him from coming any closer. He skidded to a stop in the doorframe, watching as Ziva retracted her hand and then used both to cup Tim's face. She called to him again, eyes desperately searching his face for any recognition, any reaction. There was none.

Ziva's eyes continued to search the man's face, expression shattering when she came to an unknown realization. For a moment, he thought the worst, that she somehow had been mistaken, that he had been mistaken, and that their partner was truly gone, that fate was being cruel, offering them hope that their friend had survived, only to snatch it quickly away.

Instead of drawing back, she shifted so that she was sitting next to Tim on the filthy ground, back against the wall, shoulder almost touching his, but not quite. She began to hum softly, words eventually joining her melody as she sang quietly, barely loud enough for him to hear in the near silent room. He did not initially catch the words, eventually realizing that she was singing in Hebrew, a song meant only for the man sitting next to her. He watched her interact with their unresponsive friend, pondering what she was doing when her voice caught. He studied her face, noting the tears silently making their way down her cheeks, heart shattering when he realized what she saw. He saw a shell of his friend, she saw herself all those years ago, left for dead by those who were supposed to love her in an inhospitable desert, suffering indescribable horrors day in and day out. For all the things that could connect his friends, he never wanted this, a mutual understanding of being a prisoner of terrorists.

Ziva continued to sing and he maintained vigil by the door, unsure of how he could help. When Ziva was in the fourth verse of her song, Tim took a deeper breath, though still faint, and slid down the wall, head coming to rest on Ziva's shoulder. She paused in mid song for a moment before resuming, hand tentatively reaching for Tim's unmoving one resting along his own outstretched leg. She studied his face, looking for discomfort or recognition. His gaze remained glazed and unfocused but he did not pull away.

He remained in his post, fearing the moment would be lost if he interfered. Ziva continued to sing, her tone soft, but the melody haunting. Hands intertwined with the unresponsive man, Ziva's thumb stroked the side of Tim's hand gently in up and down movements, a calming gesture meant to ease the frayed nerves of them both. He watched them for several more moments, before steeling his courage and tentatively approaching the duo. She looked up from her post on the floor as she sensed his approach, although her song did not cease. She watched him as he sat down on the opposite side of his unresponsive partner, his own shoulder ghosting upon the man's shoulder. Tim did not raise his head from its perch at the contact, barely even flinching with the appearance of the other man.

He rested his hand on his thigh, his littlest finger able to stretch out and reach his partner's hand if he wished to do so. His fingers twitched, aching to offer comfort, yet no matter how well-intentioned, he did not know if touch was wanted. Taking his cues from Ziva, he willed himself to remain still, hoping his presence would be enough.

The trio remained that way for an indiscernible amount of time, all shoulder to shoulder on the floor of the oversized closet, better described as a prison cell. The room was bathed in silence, Ziva having completed her song, and his hand twitched, straining against his mind's order to remain still. He wanted to move, to get off the dirty floor, to do something, preferably to the bastards that terrorized his partner, his friend. That was not what was needed, though. That was not what would change this horror story into a fairy tale.

A flit of movement at his side drew him from his reverie, eyes glancing down to see what caught his attention. He watched with awed, yet hopeful, fascination as Tim's hand twitched, sparks of electricity seeming to awaken the man's hand. His eyes traveled up to his partner's half-hidden face, and while the man's eyes remained glazed and unfocused, there was a tendril of a flicker of life hidden behind the irises. His gaze was drawn back down to his hand as the twitches became more controlled and Tim slid his own appendage down the side of his thigh, hand coming to rest against his friend's. It only paused a moment before it lifted ever so slowly and instinctively clasped the unmoving hand on his partner's leg. He spared a glance at Tim's face, which remained unchanged from before, eyes shifting to Ziva who was watching the exchange. A slight pressure, a light squeeze of his hand, brought a half grin to his face, and watching Ziva with tears in her eyes, he knew she had felt something similar with the entwined one of her own.

The slight smile was still present when he looked up to see Gibbs materialize before them, a relieved expression on the team leader's face as he leaned against the doorframe taking in the scene. They shared the briefest of nods before breaking gaze. He turned back to his friend as Gibbs quietly talked into his earpiece, squeezing back his partner's hand firmly, conveying all the unspoken promises he could make in one small touch.

Life is not a fairy tale, but perhaps it could still have a happy ending.

End

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**_a/n: Thank you so very much for taking the time to read this little one-shot!_**


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